I could walk out (but I won't)
by stardustinthesky
Summary: "Just let me have this, just this once." Her body is pliant underneath his cheek, soft and warm, and he can easily picture the swell of her belly with a child that will probably never be. Post-1x22.


_i could walk out (but i won't)._ legend of the seeker. richard/kahlan. _just let me have this, just this once._ her body is pliant underneath his cheek, soft and warm, and he can easily picture the swell of her belly with a child that will probably never be. post-1x22.

* * *

_(Richard)_

There's a scar just above her lip, on the left side of her mouth.

She shifts in her sleep, and moonlight hits her face just at the right angle, the small scar even sharper to the eye.

He should be grateful and take advantage of Martha's hospitality and enjoy one of those all too rare times of sleeping in a real bed but _he's in a bed with Kahlan_.

Sleeping next to her by a fire doesn't count, not when his grandfather stands guard. Not when one simple look from him and Richard is brought back to the cold, harsh reality of being unable to express the depth of his feelings to the woman he loved.

But this time no one is watching but him; he marvels at all the details they never got right on marble, in another time that never happened and that only he would remember, his face pressed against the cold stone as he mourned her.

(she didn't say anything when, after Zedd was fast asleep, Richard sneaked in her bedroom quietly and slipped under the covers with her. She only welcomed him with open arms and let him settle his face against her neck, his arm heavy on her stomach and around her waist.

Tonight had nothing to do with lust; he just needed to have her close and reassure himself that she was still there with him.)

His fingers are light on her forehead, dancing along her hairline and he finds himself trying to count the freckles there. He smiles to himself when there are too many and he loses count, her skin her own version of the night sky full of stars.

His eyes travel over her graceful features, taking her all in, and he gets fascinated with that little scar at the corner of her mouth again.

Oh, he is aware of the story behind it; once he was afraid to ask but when he did, it only brought a wistful smile on her face.

_The first time Dennee rode her pony, she kicked me in the face when I tried to help her mount it._

He remembers the indignant face she made when he'd failed to hide his grin as he pictured her five-year-old self sprawled on the ground, but he had made up to her by the time they settled camp for the night with berries he'd found and the offer that she took first watch, even if it wasn't her turn for it.

Her smile had been worth getting the second watch.

He gazes at her sleeping form once more, feeling his chest expand with his love for her, with the knowledge that, while he'd do anything for her, she'd do the same and more for him.

And she did, even if ultimately it didn't happen, she _did_.

He probably shouldn't – and he listens for any signs that would tell him that Zedd could be barging in at any moment – but he does it anyway; he kisses the corner of her mouth, the tip of his tongue the slightest touch against her skin.

He feels her stir lazily under him and her nose bumps his as her face turns towards his, blue eyes blinking sleepily at him. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

Even though he doesn't mean it, the last thing he needs is a lecture about how the Seeker and his Confessor can never be. (it doesn't stop him from trying to steal the moments with her whenever he can.)

"No, you're not," she smiles indulgently, and he notices how her gaze goes from his eyes down to his lips, back and forth.

Feeling bolder, he brings his face closer to her still, his forehead against hers. "Does it bother you when I kiss you?" he asks.

"No."

He doesn't need to see her to hear the sadness in her voice. "But?"

"_But_." She doesn't add anything and he's glad she doesn't, because what is the point of repeating yet again that the feelings they have, they're not allowed to express them to their fullest, the way they want to?

And still, it makes him angry that she would think so little of him; that he would grow tired of her because touching her the way he dreams about is out of the question. "I'm not going anywhere, you know."

"Richard—" she sighs.

His fingers twitch around the fabric of her nightdress. "I am _not_ going anywhere," he grits, trying to keep his voice as low as possible, even though two doors and a corridor separate them from Zedd (these damn wizards and their ears). "I love you and this isn't going to change just because everyone tells me that we can never be. I _love_ you."

She's silent for a long time, her pupils dilating so much that the blue of her eyes is almost overtaken by darkness. "I love you too, you know."

He releases the breath he didn't realize he was holding until she spoke. "_But_," he half-smiles, shrugging.

"But," she repeats, and her face grows somber again.

His hand on her cheek is as much reassurance for her that it is for him. "I'm not going to give up on us."

She looks at him as if she didn't believe him. "I know," she replies instead and he hears all the things she doesn't say.

His fingers are aching from fisting the fabric of her nightdress so tightly, so he uncurls his fingers before he rips it and flattens his hand across the expanse of her stomach, not realizing what he's done until she looks down.

(and it suddenly hits him, when she offered him an out once; that maybe he'd want to start a family when all of this would be over.

It _is _over.

And he _does_ want a family, someday. With no one else but _her_.

But she'd never be willing to sacrifice him, _his very essence_, to have a child with him.)

He barely hears her utter his name as he shifts down the bed, pushes the covers out of the way until he has his face pressed against her stomach. "Richard," she says again.

"Just—just let me have this. Just this once." Her body is pliant underneath his cheek, soft and warm, and he can easily picture the swell of her belly with a child that will probably never be.

And then her fingers run through his hair and he hears her hum low in her throat. Her nightdress has ridden up her thighs and his fingers splay wide across the smooth expanse of her freckled skin as he buries his face even more against her, clinging desperately to her.

"Someday," he promises.

She asks him to stay the night and he obliges, but then he doesn't bother telling her he would have stayed anyway. He spoons behind her, his face buried in her hair and falls asleep to the soft sound of her breathing.

He's fought for strangers. He will fight with everything he has for her.

* * *

_(Kahlan)_

She takes extra time to comb her hair tonight even though the sight of a bed is all too tempting, but she relishes the sensation of being without the corset for once.

She watches herself in the mirror after taking a bath; she re-learns the shape of her own body, familiar and foreign at the same time; she studies the slope of her hips, the swell of her breasts and tries not to think of Darken Rahl seeing her like that, _touching her _and wonders how _Richard_ would look at her instead.

Probably like Kieran had looked at Vivian.

(she quickly pushes the thought aside though; this need for Richard settles low in her stomach and even lower still, the same way she had felt when Vivian had possessed her, but even though she's inexperienced, she's no stranger to having her body ache with need and desire and it frightens her. But then, as always, she takes it upon herself, tries to hold it back the way she does with her power and, as Richard put it once, _suffers in silence_.)

She puts the nightdress Martha left for her on instead; pristine white as if it has been waiting for her all this time, untouched. It's not too terribly long, not even reaching her knees, which would once have been improper for someone of her status. But that was before and this is now, and sleeping with a long nightdress back when in Aydindril, or later on cold hard grounds in the woods with the black tights on, or with her legs tangled in her long skirts, wasn't something she has ever particularly enjoyed.

(and truth be told, she doesn't want to feel modest about herself anymore. She's the Mother Confessor, but there are times when she just wants to feel like a _woman_.)

She sighs when she slips under the cool sheets, but it's a welcome sensation and she stretches lazily, arching her back to release the tension in her spine after walking all day. For a moment, it's almost like she's back in her own bed and pure bliss overtakes her.

When she comes back down from her little high, she's left staring at the ceiling. But just as the inevitable loneliness of having to sleep alone for the first time in months settles in, the door of her bedroom slowly opens. _Richard._

He stands by the door after closing it, waiting and silently asking permission, and she holds out her arm in invitation, ignores the voice that tells her this isn't a good idea. He sighs deeply when he's comfortably settled against her, his skin warm as she runs her fingers along his naked back.

He toys with her hair, fiddles with her fingers and she can tell he's restless, too many thoughts racing through his mind.

She massages his scalp, trying to ease the tension out of him and kisses his forehead, like she would a child (but he's no child, and she shouldn't let him in her bed). "Go to sleep, Richard. I'm here," and he suddenly relaxes against her and makes a sound low in his throat, content.

She falls asleep to the feel of his breath on her neck and his weight pressing her into the mattress.

The next thing she knows is that someone's kissing the corner of her mouth and it feels _good_. She opens her eyes to find his face much too close to hers, but she doesn't really mind.

"I'm sorry."

Judging by the sparkle in his eyes, he's lying. "No, you're not," she counters.

He smiles like a child caught with his hand in the jar but it apparently doesn't stop him from coming even closer, his lips brushing hers as he speaks (and playing with fire). "Does it bother you when I kiss you?"

_Never._ "No."

(there's no point in lying about this. After all, she's not a really good liar.)

"But?"

"_But_," she repeats, so many things between them left unsaid even though they have been said many times already. _We can never let our guard down._

_This can never be._

"I'm not going anywhere, you know." She feels the sting in his words, even though he isn't truly mad at her directly. But he's always so impulsive that she has made it her duty to be the voice of reason. (and really, hasn't she ever been?)

Tonight is no different. "Richard—"

"I'm _not_ going anywhere," he emphasizes every word to get his point across, his fingers curling around the fabric of her nightdress and pulling, even though he's whispering as if expecting someone – probably Zedd – to barge in at any moment. "I love you and this isn't going to change just because everyone tells me that we can never be. I _love_ you," he repeats.

He's always been impulsive, yes, but also blunt honest and this is the kind of honesty – untouched and willing – she's not used to and it takes her a while to fully process this. Silence seems to stretch forever until she speaks, never breaking eye contact with him as she tries not to focus on the hand on her stomach. "I love you too, you know."

He smiles as if a weight has been lifted off his shoulders and maybe it has. "_But_," he says yet again, but his eyes carry the same mirth as his voice, as if it was just another small obstacle to overcome.

But she knows better and doesn't think he truly ever will. "But."

When he swears yet again that he will never give up on them, she almost believes him. She tries her best to mask the uncertainty that has overcome her but even she knows she's failing. "I know," she replies anyway.

She doesn't bother trying to convince him that he'll get tired of their situation, tired of_ her_ because when she tries to push him farther away, he stands his ground more firmly. Not even that, but he actually manages to get _closer_ and a small, selfish part of her thinks that maybe, if she does that enough, one day she will trust him not to ever leave.

She exhales loudly when his hand flattens on her belly and she waits as it dawns on him; he looks utterly _shocked_ and her heart aches for him. He scrambles to push the covers away and she watches, unable to move, as he presses his face against where his hand was mere moments ago. "Richard," she manages to get out and she suddenly understands his nervousness at being caught.

She says his name again and it's like watching him melt into her, sudden despair pouring out of every inch of him, seeping through his pores.

"Just—just let me have this. Just this once." His muffled voice is small and pleading and she has to swallow hard. _I love you so much. I wish I could give you a child,_ but it never gets past the lump in her throat.

She runs her fingers through his tousled hair instead, to let him _know_. She's pretty sure his fingers will leave marks on her thighs but she just does _not_ care, when all she wants is to commit the memory of him this way, of him murmuring one hopeful _someday_.

He presses one lingering kiss and it feels so normal and so foreign at the same time. She's used to the blind devotion of the men she's confessed but she's not used to his; it's unsettling to have his adoration when it has nothing to do with the power of her touch and it more often than not overwhelms her, leaving her gasping for breath.

His smile carries the same sadness than his eyes, but also the same determination; _we'll find a way_.

She wants to believe him so much but she's afraid that he's going to look at her and just _see_. "Stay?" she asks but she's already facing away from him.

Her back to his chest, they fit perfectly. His breath is warm against her neck, as is the arm wrapped around her waist.

For tonight, it's enough.

—end.


End file.
